


arizona

by k8 (paintedmaypole)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-10
Updated: 2002-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedmaypole/pseuds/k8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the Grand Canyon isn't in Phoenix. Isn't near Phoenix. Phoenix is eighty-eight, ninety degrees Fahrenheit and the Grand Canyon is somewhere else in the state. North and only about seventy degrees at the bottom, thirty degrees up along the rim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> For The Boston Mafia. Thanks to Ceili and Katie for the beta.
> 
> Some Context:
> 
> [One]  
> This whole thing was mailed back, in bits, to Katie and Althea while I was traveling in Arizona. Everywhere we went in Arizona I was either scooping up the free stationary from bedside drawers at motels or buying postcards at one of the National Park Service's many lovely gift shops. (And stealing stationary from other relatives when our room didn't have enough.)
> 
> I wrote as we went along from place to place. In fact, most of the family photos from the trip have me leaning over something and writing frantically. (I like to think It made me look mysterious.) So basically, this is my strange version of a travel diary. Only fictional. And with boyband members. And sex.
> 
> Considering that I was in a car with my parents for over a week and without internet access? This story might have kept me sane.
> 
> (And considering that I cut up the whole Montezuma's Castle section into a giant four-part puzzle with tiny tiny puzzle pieces? And Althea and Katie had to piece it back together so they could read it? I'm glad they decided to keep reading and were still willing to help me beta and post this once I got back home.)
> 
> [Two]  
> This was not originally a part of the 50 states project. That project came a little later, after a few of us happened to post stories with state names. I believe these earlier stories were included in the 50 states project as well, when it was started, but to be honest I can't even remember anymore.

I: _Welcome home to your suite memory!_

Lance wants to see the Grand Canyon and Chris wants to see the Grand Canyon so Chris decides they should just go. Go now, and get the fuck out of Kansas-- or Orlando at least. Only Chris doesn't really know where the Grand Canyon is exactly-- Arizona somewhere-- so he grabs them plane tickets to Phoenix and figures they'll worry about the rest later.

For the plane, Chris follows his _New! Improved!_ definition of frugal. He books economy class seats, but insists on the back row and buys the row's third seat as well, just in case. He smiles a lot, making sure to show teeth, guides Lance through the airport, and gets them boarded early from a side entrance. Laura, their flight attendant, walks them down the aisle to their row, gives them three pillows, two blankets, and offers complimentary pretzels. Lance declines the pretzels, Chris requests the peanuts. Laura departs to the front of the plane and Chris stuffs Lance in by the window, crawling in after him, kicking off his sneakers and sticking his feet into the aisle.

Lance sleeps most of the flight. Twitches three times and during some turbulence over Minneapolis, sits straight up, blinking and confused, until Chris pushes him back in the seat, pulls the blanket back up, strokes Lance's left arm and hums.

Lance doesn't wake up again until Phoenix. Still blinking and confused as they wait for the plane to empty and Chris pulls on his sneakers. Chris stands out in the aisle, pushing up on his toes to reach the overhead bin and passes over Lance's jacket, his blue bag, sunglasses, and the green baseball cap Lance purchased in Heathrow Airport two years earlier.

Later, at the hotel, Lance wakes up a bit more. He slips into his New City Routine. Unpacks his things, unfolds and refolds shirts into drawers, hangs his favorite Levi's over a green chair in the corner.

Chris just sits down on the bed away from the door, leans over for a blue lamp and twists the knob until it snaps on. He sits there tracing out a blue stripe on the comforter with his index finger and watches as Lance heads into the bathroom and slowly lines up his toothbrush, toothpaste, 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner and the three new bottles of pills they gave him when he left the hospital.

 

When Lance finishes unpacking his things-- has leaned down to undo the triangle shape the toilet paper is folded to end in and shaken out the fan shaped washcloths, folding them back into squares-- he comes back into the room and feels tired again. Lance stands just past the doorway of the bathroom, watching Chris spread out over the bed, dreads hanging into his face and reading through the stack of seventeen brochures he insisted on grabbing from the hotel lobby. Chris looks up from an orange one with a smiling bowling pin on the front to bitch about the "blanket feeling like fucking sandpaper" and then looks at Lance again, hard. His hair is practically white in the light, his face is pale. He yawns-- wide, that mouth-- at Chris from across the room.

"Come here," Chris requests, orders. "No, here."

Then he's pulling Lance over to the bed, lifting up the covers and pushing brochures onto the floor, throwing the blue Speedo bag and the green backpack onto the other bed next to his sneakers.

"Lance. Go to sleep."

Chris sits back against the headboard. Makes sure Lance is in bed, makes sure he has two pillows, then just watches for hours with the light on, until Lance begins to snore.


	2. part one

II: _The approach to Taliesin West demonstrates Wright's sensitive treatment of the environment in which he placed his buildings._

 

So the Grand Canyon isn't in Phoenix. Isn't near Phoenix. Phoenix is eighty-eight, ninety degrees Fahrenheit and the Grand Canyon is somewhere else in the state. North and only about seventy degrees at the bottom, thirty degrees up along the rim.

The attendant at the hotel's front desk-- the hotel in Phoenix, where they are and the canyon isn't-- suggests that Chris go to the Triple A up the street. He adjusts his green "My name is John, how may I help you?" name badge and suggests that, if Chris is a Triple A member, he might find them more helpful. Chris suspects the guy is lying through his teeth and doesn't feel like answering questions at six in the morning. Chris also hates John-How-may-I-help-you's haircut. He lets it slide.

Leaving the main desk, going back up to the room, he turns left, then right at an ice machine, and then heads up the stairs. Counting the numbers to 507, he slides the keycard in upside down and then right side up, closes the door quietly behind him.

At first he just stands there, watches and breathes. Lance has changed, taken off his shirt and pants and turned out the light. He's also moved on the bed, spreading himself from one corner to the other; wrists above his head, ankles out towards the window. He is pale pale pale, paler than Chris has ever seen him, but then he moves, is awake, sits up to look at Chris.

"Why are you up? Where did you go?" He pushes the comforter onto the floor, gets up and walks over to Chris. "Up," Lance nods at him.

"What?"

"Your arms." Lance pokes him, "move."

Lance tugs at Chris's t-shirt, then pulls it up and over Chris's head, throws it into the corner behind the door. He sits Chris down on the bed, pulls off his shoes and pants, and stuffs Chris under the covers.

Chris feels hot. He doesn't want the sheet on, doesn't want to sleep, but then Lance wraps one thigh over him and slides his palm onto Chris's stomach. Then Lance's nose is close enough to the back of Chris's neck that the hair there moves slightly, each time Lance exhales. Suddenly, Chris is asleep.


	3. part three

III:

At this point not touching has become a habit. In Europe, Lou would hand them spandex tops and just made them dance and sing on the beat. In Europe, that was all Lou cared about. Okay, that's a lie. In Europe, Lou cared about lots of things, but now he cares about them more. Now the focus is America, everything America. And making connections in America and presenting well in America and marketing to America and, apparently, not touching in America.

Chris wakes up one morning and suddenly they are popular in Florida, in his grocery store. Girls are putting on maid's uniforms and sneaking into their hotel rooms. Mothers are offering security guards favors that Justin isn't allowed to hear about and JC blushes over. They go from tired all the time to even more tired all the time.

Chris hasn't really noticed anything different until, in rehearsal, he leans forward to rest his forehead on Lance's back and Lance jumps away, looks quickly around the room and doesn't talk to him for the rest of the rehearsal.

In America, in interviews, Lance loves basketball and likes to talk about religion. In America, there are more hushed conversations. In America, there is more coaching. Chris will, on occasion, come around a corner and see Lance, head bent down, toe kicking at the ground or a corner or the rug, while Lou clutches a hand on Lance's shoulder and speaks earnestly.

Chris only catches bits and pieces. He thinks some of it might have to do with Lance's dancing ability. Once he hears something about how they need "to be making sure no one gets the wrong impression."

But Lance never brings any of it up and Chris never quite figures out what to say. Sometimes they go weeks without kissing. Sometimes Chris is convinced they aren't even speaking anymore. But then he wakes up in the middle of the night to Lance leaning over him in the dark; crawling into the bunk and shoving blankets down. Lance breathing against Chris's stomach, muttering as he hits an elbow against the wall. Pushing a hand into Chris's boxers until-- _fuck_ \-- Chris has his knees pushed up and spread apart as far as they can go. Lance is moving his mouth up and down over Chris's cock and Chris's hands are getting tighter and tighter on Lance's shoulders until Chris bites down on his lip and-- _oh_ \-- they both come too quickly. Chris falling back suddenly and hitting his hand against the wall, Lance coming warm and wet into his boxers. Lance pulls them off and throws them out of the bunk onto the floor. He forgets about them in the morning, just leaves them there, where Joey steps on them, picks them up, and yells at Lance to "jerk off in the bathroom for god's sake."

But then, as Chris's mouth drops open to say something back, to make Joey blush (because it was surprisingly easy, if you knew him right), Lance is pushing off of the counter and jumping up, blushing and apologizing to Joey. And again, it feels to Chris like nothing has even happened.


	4. part four

IV: _The English common name, Century Plant, is based on the mistaken belief that the plants grow for 100 years before blooming. In fact, some of the smaller species flower when only 3 to 4 years old. The larger species may live for 40 to 50 years before flowering._

A Saguaro cactus takes years to grow. Seventy-five years to grow an arm, ten years to hit one foot; maybe not even a foot. They are protected, supposedly. If you have to remove one you are obliged to move it to another location, watch it carefully and put it back into the ground. People still like to set them on fire however, to drive out of the city, sit around one and make pretty flames.

 

One morning in Germany, early on when they barely had one album out and things were just beginning to speed up, Chris had his _Ah Ha! All Is Revealed To Me_ moment. He walked off the elevator and into the hotel lobby, one green duffel bag on his left arm, two backpacks on the right, another suitcase rolling behind him and a gray bandanna clenched between his teeth. He was wearing the underwear he'd slept in and half clean jeans. He'd overslept and leapt out of bed to Joey banging on the door and yelling "Move! Go! Go! Go!"

There was a radio conference an eighty-minute flight away. They would barely make the flight and they had to leave for the airport immediately, but they were all moving like snails. Chris stopped behind a brass planter and dropped two bags to flex his wrist and pray he hadn't sprained it, to tie on the gray bandanna and also to look out at the group. Joey was up front, outside the glass doors, talking to the bellboy. Justin was pacing carefully around the brown border of the carpet, touching the heel of his front foot to the toes of the one behind it. JC was curled up in a chair sideways, knees hanging over and off the arm of the chair, asleep. Lance sat on a suitcase surrounded by luggage, hands folded over his knees, white shirt buttoned all the way up and a paper carrying tray with four coffees next to his right foot. Lance reached up to adjust his sunglasses and cough. He leaned down for a fifth paper cup by his other foot, pried off the lid and took a sip.

Chris yanked on the gray bandanna, shrugged one of his backpacks back on, picked up another one and yawned. He watched as Lance tilted his head, turned and looked straight at the brass planter, the green plant, at Chris. 3, 2, 1, bull's-eye. Breathed deep, stepped out into the lobby and ignored his jeans.

Chris headed towards Lance, hand out for the coffee. Thought, 'note to self' and filed it away for future reference. That he needed it, Lance, the calm. That it would be. Even if he had to wait seventy-five years or ten.

 

In Phoenix there are cactus everywhere. With the exception of strange patches in front of car dealerships and large elaborate housing complexes, everywhere that Chris expects there to be grass, everywhere his eyes want to place it, there is gravel instead. Red gravel, gray gravel, brown gravel. Sometimes, coming up out of the gravel, there will be a bush with pink flowers.

Or palm trees. Chris sees palm trees everywhere in Phoenix. He even takes pictures, for proof. It reminds him of Florida, but seems wrong somehow since the whole point was to leave Florida. And how do the palm trees survive in the desert anyway?

Around Phoenix, driving down the highway, the Saguaro cactus look strange, distorted; brown and bony, pitted almost. Lance has the map, he checks it before they leave, then turns the engine on and drives. Chris can't tell north, south, east, west so he counts cactus; five in fifteen minutes, twenty-seven after thirty minutes. The air seems hazy, but Lance has been reading the newspaper at breakfast. Just that morning he ate oatmeal and read Chris the special report on the air pollution situation. Chris looks out the window, looks at Lance's hands on the steering wheel, and wonders if the air pollution affects the cactuses why doesn't it affect the palm trees? Or does it affect the palm trees and Chris just can't see it?

 

Chris insists that being in Phoenix means they have to do things in it. Lance looks at the pile of seventeen brochures and Chris thinks the Botanical Gardens look pretty, so they head there. In the car, Chris keeps a list of the different types of gravel he sees on each block. He keeps bonus points for red and decides that two colored patterns are the equivalent of a triple word score.

Lance pulls over into a car dealership after a large intersection, unfolds the map again and leans over it intensely. "We need to figure out the--"

 

They hadn't spoken much that morning. When Chris woke up Lance was already pulling on shoes. Chris stumbled into the bathroom, rubbing a hand through his hair and squinting just enough to have to stop suddenly in the doorway and see Lance opening orange bottles and taking his new pills, filling a plastic hotel cup with water. Suddenly Chris found his hands clenching, his mouth tight. Lance met his eyes in the mirror and they were so damn green. Suddenly Chris just wanted to touch. His fingers were twitching with it, but Lance coughed and nodded at him, passed Chris a white washcloth, walked into the other room, and Chris was lost again.

 

"--Chris?"

Lance is touching his elbow, looking impatient.

"Chris? What's the street name?"

Chris has little sense of direction, but he can handle that. He snaps his fingers, grins, and names the intersection. Lance finds it next to his thumb in red, Chris traces the road back and it winds up being even closer than they've expected, just a fifteen-minute drive away.


	5. part five

V: _Do not feed wildlife. Avoid contact with rodents. The white-footed deer mouse is a carrier of hantavirus and prairie dogs can carry plague._

 _One_  
Chris rolls over in the dark, places his hand at the small of Lance's back and stares at the lampshade behind Lance's head.

"Lance. Screw him."

Later, whispers, "he made you sick."

And even later, "I can't keep doing this."

  


 _Two_  
An hour and fifty four minutes later. One foot firmly between them on the bed and Chris still awake knowing Lance is still awake. Lance-awake listening to Chris-awake breathe in the dark and pull the blankets up further.

Lance turns over, speaks to the back of Chris's neck. "I don't know what to say." He yawns and moves one knee forward. "I don't know how to go back."

Chris, speaks back, face towards the door and moving his knee away, "I can't keep doing this."

  


 _Three_  
Driving out of the city. Driving away. Chris at the wheel this time as they drive up and out. For an hour or so there are cactus everywhere. Saguaro and prickly pear; more than they'd ever seen in the city. They go past a patch growing so tight and close that a person couldn't stand between them.

They drive out and north. They have the whole day so Chris insists on reading the guidebook he purchased at the botanical gardens and making stops. They eat lunch at Montezuma's Castle on picnic benches by a creek.

  


Montezuma's castle has nothing to do with Montezuma or castles. It's just a building set into a cliff by people so old they've disappeared. Lance stops to ask the park ranger about the cliffs, about why a group of people would want to build into a cliff, about the dark gray rocks everywhere and why they are so pitted. The ranger is from Texas. He slips his hat off and back on again. "Why wouldn't you want to build here?" He speaks slowly with a slight accent. "Look how long it has lasted."

Chris walks around with his baseball cap on, but it seems like a safe enough place; more tourists than teenagers. It's quiet, but the ranger tells them the creek floods, that once the whole place was an ocean and there are shells in the rocks. Chris stops at a bench to retie his shoes and pauses to talk with a man from Nevada who likes his sneakers and the dreadlocks.

Chris is joking about feeling short and buying kids shoes. There is a breeze and the man makes a joke back. Chris doesn't realize till the man leans over, touches Chris's arm, that they are flirting. That the man's thumb is on Chris's elbow and he has just looked Chris down and up again, smiling.

Chris's stomach growls; there are crackers in the car. He smiles, but it's sharp. Chris wants it, only slightly different. He reaches up to scratch behind an ear and looks back down the path. Lance is standing back, watching, his face blank and flat.

  


 _Four_  
Chris makes eye contact with Lance, blinks and doesn't know how to move. The man from Nevada coughs and points towards a Mesquite tree. When Chris looks back again Lance is walking towards them, his eyes are still flat. Lance catches up to them with a low "Hello" and puts his hand on Chris's shoulder for a moment, then moves it away. Lance smiles, asking, "Are you ready to go?"

Walking away, around a corner, they pass another brown bench. Lance pauses, tilts his head-- "here, wait"-- and sits down sideways, pulling Chris down with him and moving forward until their knees are touching.

He kisses Chris twice on the mouth, once on his cheek and then, leaning his head down, he speaks into Chris's shoulder, "Sometimes it isn't something I could say."

Kissing Chris again, Lance's hand slides under Chris's t-shirt and up. Chris, breathing hard, pushes away for air, "It's not enough."


	6. part six

VI: _Heavy-duty six-wheel drive touring vehicles are equipped with padded seats to provide a comfortable and memorable experience._

All through Navajo and Hopi country Chris is quiet quiet. There are small clumps of homes popping into view along the way. Two or three motor homes, a few cinderblock buildings and stacks of cinderblocks on the ground, waiting to be built.

The air is dry, everywhere is dry. There are no trees, only clumps of plants and the ground. Piles and piles of ground, as old as dirt and heaped high into little mounds, turning into little hills, red and gray and brown and white. There are stripes of colors in it, stacked on top of each other. Red hills with round, pitted stones resting on top and slipping off down the sides. Some look like the foundations of old buildings. The rain has hit at them 'til they are more like stacks of bricks than solid rock, if they ever were solid rock.

All this goes on for miles. Miles down the road, miles to the left side of the road, miles to the right. Lance is in fog, or, considering the geography, his head is just filled with dust.

  


The Burger King "Your Way Everyday" sign jumps up out of nowhere. The KFC is a surprise as well. They drive through Tuba City, get lost taking a left instead of a right and decide to stop at Kate's Diner for dinner. Chris orders a burger, without onions but with pickles, and Lance feels like spaghetti. They split a strawberry ice cream afterwards and Lance looks carefully out the window when Chris leaves the tip.

Driving out, on the correct road this time, the land changes. Five minutes out and there are clumps of grass appearing in the dirt. Ten minutes out and the hills look a little more solid, more tan and yellow than red. Fifteen minutes out and neither of them are speaking, the radio is off. Lance feels like the dust has cleared out of his brain, he feels like he's about to un-pause. Twenty minutes away from the city Chris shifts forward in his seat.

"Stop. Pull over somewhere."

Lance stops the car. Chris hops out and leans against his door until Lance walks over to stand next to him, waiting. Chris looks at him out the corner of his eye.

"When we lived in the motor home we'd just left our aunt's apartment. My aunt. I'd been sharing a room with my cousin Billy who still wet the bed and smelled like Lysol. In the motor home I had my own bed."

Chris looks down and stoops to pick up a candy wrapper and to jam it into his back pocket. "That was when I got the job as a bagger at the grocery store.

"There's no. I'm just trying to say that we were on our own. It wasn't ideal, but it was better.

"I wouldn't go back. There was nothing _romantic_ about it. But this thing with Lou," he pulled at one of his braids, "this is another extreme."

The sun is setting. There is a fence near them and cattle. Chris can see for miles. It looks like a postcard or a long panoramic shot from a movie, only dustier. He looks at Lance. He's slightly sunburned on his face, but for the first time in months he looks less tired.

"Lance, have you enjoyed any of this?"

Lance hesitates.

"Anything since we've been in America?"

"No." Lance squints out over Chris's shoulder, he might be watching something, he might be staring at nothing. "I'm tired of having to think about everything. I'm tired of being dressed up and given instructions and pointed towards a room and then pushed into the space." Lance looks back at his feet. One of his shoelaces is loose. He wipes a line of dust off the side of the car and onto his pants.

"I think we're all tired." Chris stares at the brown stripe on Lance's jeans. It is running along Lance's thigh. He wants to lean down and touch it, Lance used to like being touched there. "I think it has to change. JC can't keep biting his tongue and singing what they hand him. Joey is sick of Lou ignoring him. Justin," Chris grins, "Justin hates the fake afros from the Jackson Five routine."

"Chris, we all hate the afros from the Jackson Five routine. We all hate a lot of things."

Chris frowns.

"But," Lance smiles wide and places his arms around Chris, palms flat on the side of the car. He looks down at Chris. "But. Some small parts of it have been good."

He leans his head down and kisses Chris. Chris keeps his eyes open, leans forward and kisses him back. Opens his mouth wide as Lance slips his hand lower and lower, rubbing his thumb up and down the fold of Chris's zipper. Chris leans back, rests his head against the car. He reaches an arm out and shifts Lance left so he blocks the sun.

Lance keeps his hand moving slowly. He looks down to Chris's feet and back up to his face, grinning. "Some _small_ parts of it have been particularly decent."

Chris shifts his weight, spreads his legs slightly wider. He tilts his head to the side. "I hope you aren't suggesting that I'm small all over. Because you know what they say..."

Lance works his other hand around Chris's waist, opens his eyes wide and blinks. "No," blinks again. "What do they say?"

"About," he swallows hard as Lance moves in a little closer, "small people..."

Lance tries not to smile, lets out a low "hmmmm," the corner of his mouth twitching.

"And their fabulous taste in eveningwear."

"Chris," Lance raises an eyebrow, "we don't even select our own eveningwear."

"Yes," Chris nods solemnly, "and the world will never know my true genius."

Lance chuckles low in his throat, leans close to Chris's ear. "I think I like you better naked anyway."

"I don't know if you get to see that either. Fuck. You just suggested I was small."

"Oh?" Lance dips his head lower, thinking thinking _'I so know how to get you.'_ Smiling, breathing into the line where Chris's neck and shoulder meet. "Oh but I hear you have other talents." Pressing in and up slightly with his thumb. Sliding it over the metal of the zipper.

"Oh really? From my Nevada boyfriend?"

"Oh whatever!" Lance shoves Chris away. "He liked your dreadlocks. I won't take anyone seriously that would hit on you after seeing those."

"Bitch. You love the dreads." Chris pushes him away from the car. "You yearn for the coolness that is the dreads." He leans in, "I bet you sleep with me praying your little Southern Baptist ass off, hoping to ascend to the level of coolness I have attained."

Their noses almost touch. Lance looks at him. "Get in the back seat."

Chris slides in, pushes himself along the seat until his back hits the opposite door. Lance slides in after him, pulls off his shoes and throws them into the front of the car, then pulls off his pants and tosses them on the driver's seat. He leans forward, kisses Chris quickly and hard, reaches a hand down, rummaging in a green backpack and pulling out a condom and a container of hand lotion from the hotel; he knows how to be prepared.

"What are you waiting for?"

Chris is watching him. "Well, I don't know. What about my Nevada boyfriend? He--"

"Isn't here." Lance glares at him, "Now help me."

  


Two minutes later he has Chris's shoes off, pants down. He's sliding the condom onto Chris and trying to wait as Chris opens the lotion and pushes one finger inside him, then two, three, then- _"Oh"_ -curls his fingers slightly.

Lance pulls his knees up. He puts one ankle up on the headrest and pulls at Chris till he has his legs around Chris's hips and Chris is pushing inside. Slow then quick, the hand lotion smelling vaguely fruit-like; apples maybe. Lance trying to hold his legs up, trying to touch himself, trying to breathe, trying not to breathe too much. Chris breathing fast and pushing in. It's quick, too quick, Lance begins to feel full, begins to feel calmer, but then Chris is coming hard. He pauses for a moment, looks down at Lance. He's smiling, Lance is smiling, no, Lance is biting at his lip.

Chris shifts his knee over and bends down to suck Lance off. His thumb circles the base of Lance's penis, applies pressure. Six minutes later Lance is finished and lying back on his side, pushed/pulled into Chris's arms.

"Hmmmm." Chris runs a finger through the hair on Lance's stomach, moves it so it stands on end. "Nevada isn't that interesting. I guess I could stick with you."

"Yeah." Lance pushes himself up. "But will you cut off the dreds?" He tries to kiss Chris from this angle and hits the side of Chris's mouth. Lance sighs and settles back. They don't drive off into the sunset, by the time they pull out it is already dark.


	7. part seven

VII: _Nature walks. Native American artistry. Unique shopping. Wildlife. World famous scenery, rafting and mule rides. The choices are endless at the Grand Canyon South Rim._

Driving into the Grand Canyon it's night. Pitch black out except for the darker patches on the side of the road they assume are trees.

Lance hasn't seen this many stars since his last visit to Mississippi, when they got out of the car for dinner and he looked up and realized he had forgotten so many stars existed. Only, now, he swears there are even more in Arizona. He hits the down button on the power windows as far as it can go and sticks his head out. Staring up until Chris yells "Didn't your mother tell you you could get killed like that?" and drags him back by his shirt.

The lodge in the park has doors that are painted blue, red, yellow, black and white. They walk along a path from the main lodge to the building their room is in and try to figure out what the huge black space is to their right until, "oh shit," Chris grabs Lance's arm. "Lance, that's the canyon."

Lance walks until his legs hit the wall, leans over and peers out.

"It's so damn _big_. I can't see anything."

Chris stands at the wall with him, rocks back on his heels, grinning, "I can't wait till morning."

Lance picks up the green backpack and Chris grabs the blue bag. Lance counts the doors to room 6126 and Chris makes sure to slide the key in the door with the correct side up. Lance thinks, _'clockwork.'_

Later, as Chris is beginning to fall asleep, Lance moves closer and slides an arm around him. "The cactus in Phoenix were amazing. I wonder if we could get one for the bus. Something little maybe, for the counter in the kitchen. And maybe some of that prickly pear jelly too. JC would like the color."

"Or Justin."

"Yeah."

Lance is quiet for a while. Chris thinks he might be asleep, but then Lance coughs.

"You know, Lou got pretty mad at me when I first got sick. He said some things. About making too much money on us for me to. Mess it up. Something was funny about it."

Chris shakes his head, frowns too, but Lance can't see that.

"I used to like him."

"My mom liked him."

Lance moves both hands onto Chris's shoulders. "I'm not. I won't let him get to me as much. I won't listen. I can't keep doing this either. I don't-" He swallows, there is nothing he can think to say. His hands are shaking.

Chris rolls over. Kisses him, touches his ear. Kisses him again and traces out an eyebrow with his index finger.

Lance can't stop shaking. "He made me sick. No, I made myself sick. I was so damn tired Chris. I couldn't move."

Chris pulls him close, closer to him, closest. Imagines he can see Lance's eyes, the green, whispers, "it's too much. It was too much."

He pauses, Lance blurts out, "I love you" and butts his head into Chris's chest.

"Yeeeeah." Chris pushes him back, dips his head into Lance's shoulder. "I suppose I love you too. You're a pain in the ass though." He looks up again quickly. "No," kisses Lance hard. "No. I'm lying, I'm kidding. I love you. You know that right?"

"I do."

Chris presses his thigh into Lance's crotch, "here," bites down on Lance's shoulder.

 _Oh._

Lance is shaking again, in his legs, his inner thigh. Twitching as Chris moves his leg away, places his fingers on Lance's mouth for him to suck on, wet. Twitching as Chris slides his fingers inside Lance slowly. Feeling Chris's tongue on his chin, near an ear, on his nipple.

 _Oh._

"There."

Chris always knows.

Pushing down on Chris's arm, on the fingers inside him. Reaching out with his hand to feel for Chris's arm, shoulder, side, hip, cock. Wiping off precome and using it to slide his hand around, up and down. Trying to hold out, hold it off until he is barely breathing. But then Chris has his head pressed hard into Lance's chest, Chris is shaking and coming, mumbling something about seventy five years, and Lance lets go, exhales hard, feels sweat running down his neck and between their chests.

When Chris moves his arm slightly, starts to pull his fingers away, Lance clamps down with his legs, moves even closer. "Not yet, not yet. Keep moving." Lance licks across Chris's collarbone. "A little bit longer."

"I love you."


	8. part eight

VIII: _Man's law changes with his understanding of man. Only the laws of the spirit remain always the same._

Too long without you.  
Too long without you.

All the way back down the road, south, back to Phoenix. All the way back Chris is humming with it. He drives for a few hours, then switches with Lance to sleep and wakes up shaking. He wants something. He _wants_.

He leans over, slides his palms up Lance's body, breathes hard into Lance's shoulder and shifts till he has one knee up and flat on the seat, the other leg pressing into the space between the seats. So hard he is laughing, whispering, "Now. Now. Now. Now."

He doesn't know when he went from thinking it over and over to saying it. Speaking it into Lance's skin; his shoulder, his arm, his ear; the hand Lance is lifting to touch Chris's face, chin, and cheek.

Now Lance can remember the first time, the beginning. Back in Europe, his birthday, when Joey gave him copies of _Playboy_ and _Hustler_. Lance had taken one look and wanted to punch something or scream. He can remember later, exiting to his room, Joey laughing out loud, clapping a warm hand over his shoulder, shouting, "Now Lance, don't use them all in one night."

Lance remembers the feeling of walking along the hallway, going back to his room and trying to hate Joey. Trying, but how could anyone hate Joey? Slamming the door, hitting the bed and sliding under cool sheets. Sliding his hand under the pillow to find one more present. _XY_ , _The Advocate_ , and a German gay porn magazine that didn't even bother to include articles, the boy on the cover licking at a chocolate ice cream cone. He almost cried, but then didn't bother because someone knew, somebody had to know something, and it felt so damn good.

They never discussed it. No one ever brought it up. But the next morning Lance walked into the lounge, late for breakfast, and sat down to find Chris handing him oatmeal and then butter and then the banana. And since when did anyone remember he ate oatmeal with butter?

Lance can also remember two weeks later, when Joey dragged them all out dancing. Chris wore leather pants, his hair fell into his eyes and he watched the crowd carefully. Chris always seemed to know just when someone too old, too large, with too large a smile was walking up to Justin. Offering to buy him a drink, looking too hard at Justin's legs or waist, touching his arm. Lance would watch, awed at how Chris seemed to know just how to slide in and distract them. Just enough of a distraction, just enough energy to push people away without Justin ever noticing he was being claimed, or being protected.

Later in the evening, all of them more than buzzed and out dancing in the crowd. Chris in front of Lance, back towards him, hips swaying, head back. Lance can remember the feeling. Remembers this being the best night ever, being the night to remember, because he was pushed forward into Chris and just settled there. His hands curling around Chris's hips, thumbs settling into the space between Chris's pants and shirt. Too drunk to be embarrassed that he was hard suddenly, that Chris could feel it. Chris moving back slightly further, both of them barely barely moving and Lance afraid to keep his eyes open, afraid to close them. Lance, thinking, "now. Now. Now. Now."

  


All of that eons and hundreds of plane trips ago. None of it in Arizona, where Lance is in the driver's seat, searching desperately for a place to pull off the road and Chris is pressing his hands into Lance's sides, moving the tips of his fingers down the seams of Lance's jeans.

"When we get back," Lance clears his throat and shifts Chris's left hand down, back by his knee, tries to drive, "we should go out. Go dancing again. I miss-" He blushes and reaches his hand out. Places his thumb on the skin above the edge of Chris's jeans. Chris slides his hand up from Lance's knee, back up to his hip. Lance sees a spot, finds a spot, makes a spot and pulls off the road.

Too long.

Now.


End file.
